


Boxing Day

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Confined/Caged, Crack, M/M, Playing around with genre conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't know which is more disturbing: that this might be Sherlock's idea of a joke, or that it might be his idea of a romantic gesture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).



> This story represents something of a writing experiment for me. I'm grateful that Moony's gift is giving me a chance to indulge it. That being said, it's really this first chapter that's a gift for her; she should in no way be held responsible for what's going to happen in chapter 2. (more details - though a bit spoilery - in the notes at the end.)
> 
> Many many thanks to hiddenlacuna for prompting and handholding, and to prettyarbitrary and airynothing for the lightning beta work. None of them should be held responsible for this, either.

If it weren't for the fake Christmas tree in the lobby, a visitor might think themselves in a hotel in London rather than Karachi. The second-floor room is so generic as to be unremarkable in every aspect. Behind its door, Sherlock hands Irene a small envelope.

"Your flight leaves in the morning," he says. "First to Los Angeles, then a connection to... somewhere in the middle." He shrugs. "You'll want to change that on the stopover, of course."

"Of course."

"Better if I don't know where."

"Much better," she agrees. "And I suppose you're for London."

Sherlock doesn't bother answering, just raises his eyes to meet hers and reaches into his pocket again. When he holds out his hand, he's clutching a tube of lipstick between his fingers.

The smile that breaks across Irene's face is entirely involuntary. "You matched the shade." It shouldn't be a surprise, but it is.

"Mm," he says. "Merry Christmas."

Sherlock's voice is flat; his face, when she searches it, is deliberately blank. But he can't hide the dark shadows under his eyes, or the lines of strain at the corners of his mouth. They make him look unlike himself in more ways than can be explained simply by the necessity of his disguise.

"Is it?" Irene asks. "I'd lost track."

Irene takes the lipstick from him and Sherlock hurriedly returns his hand to his pocket, but not quickly enough to hide the slight tremor exhaustion has given his fingers.

She settles lightly on the edge of the room's single bed, folding her hands across the dark fabric covering her knees. "I don't like to leave gifts unrequited," she says, "but I'm afraid I don't have anything to give in exchange."

The twist in Sherlock's mouth is nothing like a smile.

"I doubt you'd have anything I want."

Irene breathes out a quick laugh. Genuine amusement; no reason not to let Sherlock hear it. Not now.

"No," she says, after a moment. "I really wouldn't."

* * *

John is just returning from lunch with Harry—a Boxing Day tradition; since her split with Clara, Harry's tendency to spend Christmas Eve drinking herself into a stupor leaves John free of family obligations on Christmas Day—when Mrs Hudson pops out of her flat to intercept him.

"Something arrived for you today," she says. "Rather a large box. I had the men take it upstairs."

"Something— today?" John isn't expecting anything, and besides, there's no post on Boxing Day. Which means, whatever it is, Sherlock—and there's no doubt in John's mind as to who's responsible—must have made special arrangements. In John's experience, "Sherlock" and "special arrangements" are precisely the sort of combination best avoided.

It seems Mrs Hudson is having a similar thought. "It's only, ever since those cow foetuses." She presses her lips together into a thin line of disapproval. "Those were in a big box too, you know, and they melted all over the hall carpet, I—"

Christ, the smell had lingered for months. "Don't worry, Whatever Sherlock's done, I'll take care of it." So help me, he thinks. "I take it he isn't back yet?"

"No, dear, not yet."

Something both disgusting _and_ inconvenient, then. Something disgusting and inconvenient shipped in large quantity.

Right.

It would be a bit much, John supposes as he climbs the stairs, to have hoped sleeping together would mean an end to this sort of nonsense. Just as it was apparently a bit much to suppose it meant Sherlock would tell him before he went haring off to who-knows-where.

Well. That wasn't quite true, was it? Sherlock had told him. The git had sent a text: _At Heathrow. Will be gone for a few days. - SH_ Yes, perfect. Well done there, Sherlock. Precisely the correct amount of information. No need to mention where he was going, or when he might return, or that in the meantime John had best prepare himself for an apparently gigantic parcel containing decaying beef or peat samples or another round of bloody—literally bloody, with severed tendons still attached—horses' hooves, or—

John's righteous anger is put on hold when he sees what's waiting for him in the sitting room.

It is, in fact, a bloody huge box, longer and wider than John himself, covered in labels proclaiming the fragility of the contents. On its side, the crate comes up nearly to John's hip. The coffee table and one of the chairs have been moved to one side to accommodate it. The customs label is written in an unfamiliar script—all his limited knowledge of Arabic and Hindustani tells him is that it isn't Pashto—though the "to" line is clear enough: John Watson, in big, block letters.

Well. It's not as though he'd really believed it might be a mistake.

`To: Sherlock Holmes  
Why is there a sodding huge box in the sitting room?`

John considers simply walking away and leaving the crate for Sherlock to sort out upon his return, but not knowing when Sherlock will be back makes that a risky proposition. If he put John's name on the label, he meant for John to deal with it. Knowing Sherlock, the contents have an expiration date, and the only thing worse than a bloody crate taking up the entire sitting room is a bloody crate taking up the entire sitting room that has started to _smell_.

Best not to take chances.

John eyes the layers of fastenings that secure the lid to the crate, then retrieves Sherlock's knife from the mantel and leans in to begin cutting away the bands of rigid plastic holding the crate closed. The lid is too long and heavy to shift easily, so he leans his weight against it until it slides to the floor and lands with a loud thud.

Inside is— oh, bloody hell.

Inside is what appears to be a body bag. It's made of thick, black canvas and suspended within a web of red rope looped through eyebolts affixed to the sides and bottom of the crate. The two ends of the rope are drawn together into an elaborate bow that rests just above the— Christ. Where the body's heart would be.

John takes a step back, his pulse hammering hard in his throat. If this is Sherlock's idea of a joke, it's a singularly unfunny one.

Still, John thinks, eyeing the red rope and the placement of the bow. Better that it be Sherlock's idea of a joke than that it be Sherlock's idea of a romantic gesture.

He checks his phone. Still no response from Sherlock.

`To: Sherlock Holmes  
If you've sent me a cadaver for Christmas, I'm going to kill you.`

John slips his mobile into his pocket and frowns down at the crate, then braces a hand on one edge to lean in closer. He might have been imagining it, but— yes, there, attached to the bow and half-hidden in shadow, is a piece of paper.

Upon closer inspection, it's a gift tag. Bloody hell. When he'd said that about the cadaver, he meant it as a _joke_.

"If there's a body in here, I'm going to leave it in your bed for you to find when you get back. _And_ I'm going to rip all the buttons right off the shirt I got you." He considers. " _Before_ I give it to you." He'd been planning to do that later, but Sherlock has to learn somehow and John doubts that his usual method would be quite the deterrent he intends.

… which is not precisely the sort of thought one wants to have while facing down a crate full of what might be anything from fabric swatches to beetle larvae.

Right. John threads his hand between the tangle of red cord to grasp the tag and tug it free.

 **To: John Watson  
** **Contents: One good night's sleep.**  
 **XXX - Irene**

To say he was expecting anything in particular would be absurd, but... certainly not _that_.

John is still trying to make sense of it when, from inside the bag, he hears a sound.

Oh, bloody fucking actual _hell_.

There's a zip running down the centre of the bag, shining in the overhead light. John can't make his fingers work fast enough as he tugs it open. It catches, briefly, but one more tug and the zip parts, leaving a gap about a foot in length.

Sherlock. _Sherlock_. What the hell is he—

His face is largely obscured by thick cloth wrapped tight over his eyes and mouth. John pulls them away as quickly as he can. His skin, beneath John's fingers, is hot to the touch and damp with sweat.

Sherlock screws his eyes shut against the light and turns his head to the left, coughing until a thick plastic tube falls free of his mouth.

John's brain seems to be working in slow motion. Has Sherlock _shipped himself_ here?

"You know," John says, "when I said I didn't want to spend Christmas alone—"

He breaks off as Sherlock opens a reddened eye to squint up at him. Sherlock's hair is plastered to his forehead; below it, his cheeks are pink with a flush that extends all the way down his throat and reddens his swollen lips. He is, in the kindest possible terms, a mess.

His voice is a harsh rasp, but his lip curls upward. " _John_."

Christ. Maybe this really _is_ Sherlock's idea of a romantic gesture.

One good night's sleep, indeed.

"I know," John says, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. "But this..." John waves a hand, encompassing the whole situation. Then he settles it deliberately against Sherlock's chest with his palm covering the bow over his heart. "Really, Sherlock. You shouldn't have."


	2. Chapter 2

Their hurried flight back to his hotel isn’t enough time for the adrenaline to leave their systems. Irene’s face, framed in black, is pale, but her cheeks are pink and the smile she turns his way when he produces the lipstick is slow and very likely genuine. 

Her shoulderblades are sharp and familiar, even covered as they are by the rough terrycloth of the hotel robe, and really, Sherlock should know better than to trust Irene to turn her back on him. He does know better.

“Don’t worry,” she says. His knees have gone soft and liquid, refusing to hold firm against the weight of his body and dumping him to the ground. The carpet is bluish-green, scratchy beneath his cheek, undoubtedly filthy. His snarl dies in his throat as the world begins to go soft and grey, swimming dizzyingly in the edges of his vision.

The unfamiliar note in Irene's voice might be kindness. “I’m going to help you.”

* * *

Later: a dark that won’t settle into steadiness, the distant incessant thrum of an engine filling his ears, battering its way into the fragile fibres of his bones.

* * *

Later: still dark, even when he opens his eyes. No, _wrong_. Revision: darkness even beyond his eyelids, which appear to be stuck closed. He swallows, his mouth and tongue incredibly dry, and there's hard plastic in the way. 

His groan is both involuntary and thoroughly muffled, felt through the bones of his skull rather than heard. External sound is distant and indistinguishable; he can get nothing from it beyond the fact of its existence, the knowledge that there's _something_ out there beyond the silent darkness. 

He tries to raise his hands, but they won't come. He can't fight what he can't identify, and this force is all formless pressure on his limbs; pressure, when he tries to move, surrounding him on all sides. His pulse becomes a frantic flutter and he swallows down a wave of nauseated panic, sucking in air as quickly as the plastic tubing in his mouth will allow. His throat is so painfully dry, but if he were to vomit— it doesn't bear thinking about.

Sherlock calms himself, just enough, by force of will.

Gradually, he understands: a heavy material wrapped close against his skin, head to toe, pinning his arms to his sides, sealing the length his legs together. 

He rolls his head, or tries to—the material is as thick and stiff around his neck as everywhere else, his efforts hampered by the hopeless discoordination of his still-weak muscles—and achieves a few centimetres of motion. His reward is the faint sensation of the material covering his skin sliding against something he can't identify. He could work out what it was if he could feel it, but he _can't_ , not properly, not through the close-tight swaddling layer of material enclosing his skin.

He's sweating, desperately warm. The air is close and damp; the air, in fact, is suffocating. (No, not suffocating; don't be ridiculous.) (Would it be ridiculous? He might— but no. She doesn’t want him dead. If she did— no. _No_. Breathe.) His pulse is a hard, heavy throbbing in his throat. It takes effort to draw air in through the hard tubing pressing against his tongue; he forces it, again and again, as much as he can. Even so his head is swimming, bright sparks of colour worming their way across the darkness before his eyes.

As the drug—it must have been a drug; impossible to know more than that; impossible to muster the will to care—fades from his system, he tries to call out. It's a futile effort: he can't expand his chest enough to draw in a proper breath, and any sound he does manage to force up his parched throat is swallowed by the heavy close darkness. It _hurts_. He sucks in air and tries again, and again, until he's dizzy and shaking with the effort.

The memory is hazy, but his thoughts circle and circle until they finally alight on solid ground: Irene. Irene Adler. If this is her idea of a _joke_ — 

But no; she's not laughing. She's not _here_.

(How does he know she isn't? The tube in his mouth, the _noise_ , the— he doesn't know. She might be. And yet.)

This. All this. For whose benefit?

Later, when the blanketing force of the drug has receded a little more, he tries to move. Tries. Fails. He’s completely encased. Even his fingers are held immobile, seemingly individually wrapped and pinned, and any small movements he manages simply bring him (distantly, through heavy muffling layers) hard up against an unyielding rough material that seems to close him in on all sides.

The efforts leave him breathless and exhausted, the darkness around him exploding with colour as his brain struggles against limited oxygen. Breathe. _Breathe_. His diaphragm struggles to comply, pressing his ribcage outward as far as it will go. Not far enough. Breathe.

* * *

Movement. He's being transported. She's sending him somewhere. Sherlock's mind reels, the possibilities dizzyingly endless: several dozen options too obvious to contemplate; a few more than that, unbearably horrible. Fear begins to claw its way up his throat, sharp and bitter. He shakes and shakes and forces it back down. It won't help. It _won't help_.

Nowhere, he concludes, with the darkness pressing in around him and his pulse singing in his ears; there's _nowhere_ she'd be sending him, not a place in the world for which he could devise a motive that would justify all this, which means—

Nothing. It means— he can't. It means nothing.

* * *

Somewhere in the still, overheated blackness, Sherlock has lost himself, his existence slipping into the spaces between counterpoint rhythms: the slight upward shudder of his ribcage that brings a rasp of pain down his throat as he inhales, the heavy thud of his heart that sends the dizzying ache in his head pulsing down the back of his neck.

Then the darkness around him comes alive with jarring, shuddering movement, sharp jerking motion that sends him careening through the blackness. He’s going to be sick. He _can’t_ be sick. The smooth muscles of his throat convulse, his tongue flexing around the hard plastic of the tube as gravity begins to compress him anew, a new angle, so hard and inexorable he has the sudden, disorientating thought that it might squeeze him to nothing.

With nowhere to go, the adrenaline flooding his system becomes a recursive feedback loop, the pounding of his heart sending his blood racing along his limbs only to find itself, once again, back where it started; his heart hammering against the sides of his ribcage, bone and muscle and soft tissue pressed into one solid, useless mass, squeezed in and in, covered and trapped inside this _bloody fucking box_ full of overheated air and _nothing_ and— 

Silence. The silence is new. He tries to shout past it, but either he fails to push any sound free of his throat or there’s no one on the other side of the darkness to hear. Once he’s started, Sherlock finds he can’t stop. He carries on as long as he can, until his chest will no longer support his efforts and he’s left shaking, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air. Nothing has changed.

— then a final, shuddering bump and the world rights itself again. The urge to vomit fades, gradually, and with it the panic-spike of adrenaline. Sherlock’s pulse steadies, slows, until he is once again set adrift in the dark.

* * *

The sound isn't enough to rouse him, not on its own. Now when he’s already slipped so far down into the silence and darkness and stillness, the cramped limitations of his own body, the red-orange fire licking its way along the nerves of limbs ill-suited to being forced into one position for so long.

He knows that noise. Would know that noise if he could be bothered to identify it. It doesn’t matter; it’s far away. He’s breathing, more or less, his lungs pulsing and purple-bright, flickering in the mental space he’s carved out of the nothingness. He’s breathing, and it’s all he can do. It has to be enough.

Movement joins the sound. Not much, just enough that Sherlock sways a little, bones and tendons and joints creaking with the shifting compression of gravity. Not much; overwhelming. He tries to steady himself, gripping nothing with fingers and toes that feel distant and outsized and entirely out of his control. He’s sweating, his thirst like gravel in his throat, each beat of his heart sending a sharp ache pounding downward from his skull. Even that awareness is distant; like this, his body is a half-formed nebulous thing, a theoretical concept even as it remains the very thing holding him here.

Next: the sound of a zip, cool air on his face. Just a bit, wisps of it licking across the sweat-damp skin of his cheek, and it’s bliss, he just— _please_. If he could speak he would be begging. He can’t— any of it. He can’t. 

For a long time: the shuddering of his heartbeat in the darkness, the cool air washing over the skin of his cheeks and throat, heat and damp and unbearable immobility below. Not enough; not nearly enough.

Then: steady fingers on his skin, overwhelming jolts of sensation after the numb eternity of _nothing_ and _nothing_ , peeling away the heavy material at his mouth. The cough that frees the plastic tube from between his teeth is convulsive, involuntary, the unobstructed drawing-in of air that follows nearly unbearable.

Somewhere far away, in the distant dark space occupied by what was once his body, the tremors begin, long wracking convulsions of muscles held still and taut for far too long.

Sherlock shudders and gasps, the newly-exposed skin damp with sweat and prickling with sudden chill, while the cloth is removed from his eyes. After so long in the dark the light is searingly bright, even with his eyelids squeezed shut, but Sherlock knows that touch. Of course he does. He’d hardly had space in his head to consider what might be waiting for him, but now that the inevitability of it is accompanied by an immense relief, as sweet and overwhelming as the air he can’t pull into his lungs with enough force.

Help him, indeed.

He should have known.

John’s voice is distant and indistinct. If there are individual words, they're lost to the hammering of Sherlock's pulse and the rush of blood in his ears.

When he finally peels an eye open, Sherlock finds himself squinting up into a bright-flared wash of indistinguishable shapes that slowly resolves into incongruous familiarity. Where he would have expected anger, perhaps, or horror on the face staring down at him, what he sees instead is a mixture of incredulity and amusement. 

It’s enough to shock him into a smile despite the still-crushing vice grip of unseen forces on his limbs and the ache in his head. The motion pulls at his cracked-dry lips; the small, sharp pain that results is so normal that it's very nearly comforting.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and forces air up his parched throat. He needs to hear hear his own voice, meaning to ask for help or perhaps to— anything, nothing, he just. He needs. He _doesn’t know_.

Irene said she was going to help him—that same question again: _for whose benefit?_ —and sent him here. Sent him home.

(Should have known better, should have—) 

The sound that emerges, in the end, is involuntary, nonsensical; obvious—

" _John_." 

—and the only thing that makes any sense at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this "playing around with genre conventions," by which I mean that this fic has turned into an experiment in writing two sides of a story in which each of the sides exists in a different genre. Chapter 1 exists in the odd and uncomfortable nexus of humor, fluff, and crack; chapter 2 is going to be somewhere a bit more comfortable for me. Specifically, to borrow the words of a wise airline steward, it's the version with the screams. (and yes, for those who might have seen/remember, this is the thing I mentioned on tumblr a few weeks ago.)
> 
> But, as I say above: don't blame poor Moony for chapter 2. Or, for that matter, chapter 1.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Boxing Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699606) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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